


Talon's Family

by Alfreds_Mustache



Series: Talon & Batfamily [2]
Category: Batman - All Media Types, DCU, Nightwing (Comics)
Genre: Court of Owls, Dick Grayson is a Talon, Dick Grayson-centric, Former Talon Dick Grayson, Mental Disorders, Mental Health Issues, Neurodiversity, No editing we die like mne, People are Assholes, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Protective Batfamily, Self-Harm, talon!Dick has trouble doing things he used to, temporary psychological regression
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-09-23
Updated: 2020-04-17
Packaged: 2020-10-26 14:09:24
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 8
Words: 9,989
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20743475
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Alfreds_Mustache/pseuds/Alfreds_Mustache
Summary: Talon isn't like the rest of his family -- not just in appearance and ability. His mental state has suffered greatly from his time in the Court of Owls, and he has trouble doing certain things that he used to be able to as Dick Grayson; things that seem to come naturally and effortlessly to his family members.But as frustrated as Talon is with his own mind, he has the full support and love of his family, who are always more than happy to lend their assistance.





	1. Words

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: If you recognize it, it's not mine. All rights go to DC Comics.
> 
> This is in the same series as "Talon's Lazy, Sunbeam Day" but can be read independently.
> 
> TRIGGER WARNING: hurtful slurs, harmful/untruthful portrayals of mental disorders.
> 
> None of what is written here is meant to be hurtful to anyone except the characters (for the sake of plot). I took descriptions from my own experiences with certain conditions, but if there's something in particular you really don't agree with, kindly let me know and I will change it!

Bruce always regrets reading the headlines during breakfast because they never seem to say anything nice. Having to confront and correct a number of prejudiced, biggotted, and ignorant people attending his charity gala the previous night had drained him emotionally. It is of little surprise, then, that he happens to be rather upset by seeing the same inaccurate and offensive accusations repeated in the headline of the morning paper. Frustrated and annoyed, he tosses the paper in the wastebin on his way out the door heading for work.

Dick, Jason, and Damian are all eating breakfast at this time. Damian and Jason argue about nothing important while Dick looks curiously at the disposed-of paper, wondering what could have possibly upset Bruce so much. This particular reaction was rather out of the ordinary (Bruce is usually annoyed by the headlines but only shakes his head and sighs before taking another sip of his morning coffee), and Dick wanted to know why. So, after taking the paper out of the wastebasket and turning it over, he peered at the words printed largely at the top of the front page. As he tried to make sense of the all-caps, bolded letters, he tilted his head and furrowed his brows in concentration. From what he could make out, the article was about him--Dick Grayson-Wayne--and what looked to be some unfamiliar words that he thought he might’ve heard from various upper-class guests who were at the gala last night. He didn’t know what they meant, but based off of Bruce’s reaction, he concluded that they probably weren’t positive.

Still confused, he found himself wandering up the mannor’s main staircase to the second floor and down the first hall toward the bedrooms, all whilst trying to sound out the words in his head. When he arrived in front of Tim’s room, he let go of the paper with one hand to gently knock on the door once. He used his other hand to mark the curious headline with his thumb so that he would remember the words in question, even though he was certain that it wouldn’t be at all difficult to find them again should he remove his appendage. The door swung open to reveal the sloppy but wide-awake form of his younger brother.

“Hey, Dick.” Tim smiled and stepped aside so that Dick could enter his mostly-pristine room.

Sitting down in a rolling chair at his desk, he motioned for Dick to sit on the bed. Dick followed him to the other side of the room to stand just beside the desk (Tim was not at all surprised). Observing the newspaper that was still clutched loosely in Dick’s hands, he nodded to himself, guessing what this was about.

“Words?” he asked simply, one eyebrow quirked.

Dick nodded once, firmly, before offering the paper to Tim. Before Tim could ask which ones he meant, Dick pointed to two different ones in the same headline. Pausing for a moment, he looked at the title in full before going back to the two words in question. He felt something twinge painfully in his stomach as he read:

_DICK WAYNE: AUTISTIC OR RETARDED?_

Tim clenches his teeth to suppress a sudden wave of anger and protectiveness that threatened to spill from him in the form of violent cursing. Dick notices the sudden mood shift, but doesn’t comment as he as he awaits Tim’s explanation.

Taking a deep breath to settle his raging nerves, he looks up at his brother’s earnestly curious expression. He briefly considers lying about the words’ implications, but knows from experience that it is better to just rip off the metaphorical bandaid. Sighing in resolution, he begins to explain. He reminds himself that the sooner he gets the explanations out, the sooner it’ll be done.

“Okay, I guess, uhm...Well. _‘Autism’ _is a mental disorder that a person is born with and, um, it affects things like a person’s communication and social interactions, and especially the way that the brain processes certain input and sensations like, uh, taste, sound, smell, touch, and--um--light. Yeah.”

Dick nods slowly, eyes squinted as he processes the information he was just given. Tim clears his throat (only stalling a little bit) before moving on.

“So…. um, _‘retarded’ _is a word that, uh--_literally_ speaking--describes someone whose mental development is...slower...than most people’s.” He pauses to swallow down another wave of burning anger. Then he continues, “_Generally_ speaking, however… ‘retarded’ is used to slander someone, to degrade their intelligence and insinuate that they’re incompitent--” a confused head tilt from Dick-- “or, uh, stupid, I guess you could say. Either way, ‘retarded’ is usually considered a super offensive slur and should honestly never be used as an insult. Same with the word ‘autistic’ or ‘autism’; it’s a legitimate mental disorder that affects millions worldwide and in no way should be used to label someone as ‘stupid’. Basically what I’m trying to say is that neither of those words are _ever _appropriate insults, and to assume and then broadcast either of those things is nobody’s business and is extremely immoral.”

Tim finished his explanation-turned-rant with a heaved sigh, slouching back into his chair. A static silence filled the room as neither said a word. Then, while Tim was collecting his thoughts, Dick plucked the newspaper from the desk using two fingers (like it was a dirty washcloth that was too gross to hold properly) and dropped it into the wastebasket against the wall. Nodding once to himself, he wiped his palms briefly on his shirt and turned around.

“Thanks, Timmy.” He said with a grateful smile. If he was negatively affected by the explanations just given, Tim couldn’t tell.

“You bet, Big Bird.”

Rolling his eyes at the teasing nickname, Dick turned swiftly and strode as elegantly as he always did out of Tim’s room with his head held high.

Tim smiled, relieved. _That went significantly better than I thought it would,_ he noted. But still, as he allowed himself to relax and as his stomach growled hungrily, he noticed the stubborn twinge of rage in his gut remained annoyingly present. He stood from his chair, stretched, and followed Dick out of the room.

As he made his way down to the dining room for breakfast, only one thought was on his mind:

_A journalist is going to eat his own slanderous words tonight…._

He smirked.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thank you for reading!
> 
> and please, i really dont want to offend anyone with the content in this chapter, but, again, i do have personal experience so im not just guessing and presuming things. BUT if there is something that you really don't like, please let me know in the comments. <3


	2. Regression

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After a Bad Night, Dick deals with the emotional/psychological trauma by reverting to childlike behavior as a sort of “defense mechanism”. He is still the oldest (24-ish, although he looks a couple years younger than Jay because of the whole Talon thing).

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: if you recognize it, it’s not mine. All right go to DC Comics.
> 
> I’m not a medical professional, just a nerd with access to the internet, so I’m sure there are inaccuracies in this chapter. If you happen to know anything about regression, and I got something totally wrong or weird, please let me know and I will fix it! :)

“Dami!” Dick bounded into the library with the eagerness of a hyper five-year-old. “Wanna play with me?”

Damian, sitting upright in Bruce’s armchair, looked up from his notebook. He blinked in annoyance as his concentration was disrupted. “Grayson,” he greeted tersely.

Dick was suddenly behind him, upper body draped over the back of the chair. Damian hunched forward over his paper, and Dick remained unmoving, except to blow a puff of air at the top of the younger’s head. Sighing, Damian let himself sink down into the chair with his face tilted upward to meet his brother’s eyes. Dick’s face was alight with childlike joy that he’d never himself experienced, and rarely witnessed - in a place like Gotham, childish behavior was near-nonexistent.

“Play with me,” Dick insisted, face morphing into one of determination. Or maybe it was excitement -- Damian couldn’t tell. Suddenly, lithe acrobat used his arms to launch himself easily over the back of the chair, flipping midair, and landing in a crouch in front of him.

Damian raised an unamused (but slightly impressed) brow. “‘Play with you’?”

“Yeah!” Dick sprung up and began shifting his weight from foot to foot.

Why was Grayson so... _ excitable _ all of the sudden? Damian honestly had no clue, and couldn’t stop from wondering what had caused this dramatic shift in behavior… He slightly regretted the fact that he was questioning Dick’s apparent good mood, because it meant assuming that his brother was only himself if he was calm and reserved. Damian pushed his thoughts aside; he didn't want to think like that. He sighed. “Do you mean to spar with me, Grayson?”

“No,” Dick’s face soured and he scrunched his nose in distaste, as though it was an unusual or displeasing assumption. Damian wasn’t equipped to handle this kind of social-emotional interaction. Not this late in the day, at least. (Actually, he was never equipped for anything that didn’t require unsheathing his blade and mercilessly attacking whatever was in front of him.)

“So  _ what _ , then, Grayson?” he was growing impatient. (He was... _ peeved _ that he couldn’t immediately tell what Grayson was thinking or alluding to. Why were  _ Nightwing and Robin _ so much different than  _ Dick and Damian? _ )

“A  _ game _ ,” Dick rolled his eyes exaggeratedly before practically bouncing in place. “Duh.”

It was at this moment that Damian began to wonder if some of West’s hyperactivity/super-speed had rubbed off on Grayson.

(Meanwhile: sitting on his unkempt bed while scrolling lazily through some unread texts, Jason felt the sudden urge to say “If you know what I mean, wink-wink…” in response to some seemingly-innocent comment that he hadn’t been present for. Immediately after the urge passed, he could've sworn he felt a phantom mental-glare from Alfred. He shuddered.)

Damian sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose the same way that his father often did when agitated (which was quite often). “ _ What _ game, pray tell?”

When he didn’t receive an answer, he looked up from his pinched fingers -- only to discover that his brother had already disappeared from the room. Damian rolled his eyes and settled back into the chair cushions; he was confident that if Dick wanted to clue him in on whatever that had just been, the older would do so. He knew where to find him. And, annoyingly, he always did. 

Sometimes Damian just didn’t understand this forsaken family.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is Part 1 of 2 (or 3, we’ll see how it goes) for the topic of “regression”. Do you want the second part next, or a separate mental-health issue next and THEN part 2? Let me know in the comments!! ^-^


	3. Regression 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This is a continuation from last chapter. Tim and Jason are the main stars of this one. (Next chapter will be the most "regression-based", and will focus on explanations/emotions and such.)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: If you recognize it, it's not mine. All rights go to DC Comics.
> 
> I'm not a medical professional, just a nerd with access to the internet, so there are bound to be inaccuracies; kindly let me know if i incorrectly/inappropriately portrayed something and i will do my best to fix it!
> 
> bold AND italicized = Jason's texts.  
bold (NOT italicized) = Tim's texts.

“‘Sup, Dick.” Jason didn’t look up from his phone as his brother strode in. He’d know that shifty bastard’s silent footsteps anywhere. Hell, if any of his family members were to slink into his room at a random time of the day and without explanation, it was almost always Dick -- so, Jason wasn’t all that surprised by his brother’s sudden appearance.

He  _ was  _ surprised, however, when Dick’s first action upon entering Jason’s room was to shift smoothly from his feet onto his hands and knees and then scurry under the bed like an oversized cockroach.

Jason blinked.

He blinked again.

Then he shrugged, turning his attention back to his phone.

They remained like this for about ten minutes until Jasan’s curiosity got the better of him. So, leaning his torso over the bed, he peered into the cluttered darkness beneath. “Dickface?” his eyes scanned the old boxes and forgotten clothes, before finally landing on his brother. “What, uh... What’re you doing?”

Dick’s glinting eyes snapped toward Jason and he held a finger to his lips, shushing him.

“That wasn’t an answer, asshole.” Jay’s expression turned blunt in mild annoyance.

The lithe figure under the bed tensed. “Jay!” he harshly whisper-yelled, “I’m  _ hiding! _ ”

“From…?”

“ _ Shhhh! _ ”

Jason rolled his eyes and pulled himself back onto his bed in one easy motion. He heaved a calming sigh and, again, reached for his phone.

He knew when to give his brother space, especially when he was struggling to recover from a particularly Bad Day. All things considered, Jason was surprised that Dick hadn't completely, mentally shut down yet. Last night had been taxing on everyone in the manor, especially for the oldest bird. If Jason had been in his position, he’d have gone catatonic hours ago.

Of course, after a Bad Day, Dick tended to inadvertently do one of two things; he’d either shut down or he’d regress. And, from what Jason had observed so far -- and the fact that Dick had even spoken to him at all in the first place -- he could accurately assume that the behavior shown was the latter of the two.

_ It’s one of those kinda days, huh, Dickie? _

He tapped on the message icon on his homescreen, scrolling through his recent contacts until he found the one labeled ‘Coffee Bitch’. He opened up the conversation and began typing.

*

Tim’s phone buzzed.

Pausing the documentary on his laptop, he dug his phone from his sweatshirt pocket and looked at the banner that had just popped up on his lockscreen.

** _1 New Message from: AssholeTodd._ **

Tim made a noise of contempt, emitting a low groan while rubbing his eyes in irritation. He took a deep breath before pursing his lips, steeling himself as he tapped on the banner.

** _U playing with dick??_ **

Tim’s face turned bright red and nearly threw his phone across the room in simultaneous shock, confusion, and disgust. Barely controlling himself, he typed out and sent a tasteful reply instead.

**WTF IS WRONG WITH U????!!!! NO!!!!!!!!!**

Not even five seconds later, Tim’s phone buzzed again.

** _Fuck u, i meant D.G._ **

** _U guys playing a game or smthg??_ **

Still confused, but at least not horrified anymore, Tim sent another text back to Jason.

**No. why????**

** _Hes under my bed rn. Says hes hiding._ **

**Like hide & seek?**

**Is he ok????**

** _Idk. ask Demon if he knows._ **

**U ask him.**

** _Cant. busy._ **

**Fuck u -.-**

** _K thanks byeeee! ;)_ **

Tim clenched his jaw, curbing the overwhelming urge to yell in frustration while “lightly” punching Jason in the face. He didn't want to get up, he really didn’t, especially not to willingly seek out and then talk to his youngest (*least-favorite) family member. Ruefully, he forced himself to stand. He stretched his limbs and joints for longer than was probably necessary and he took a deep breath.

_ Time to find the demon brat, I guess... _


	4. Regression 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Damian doesn’t understand what he did wrong, and is still learning about his brother’s daily struggles.
> 
> Disclaimer: If you recognize it, it’s not mine. All rights go to DC Comics.
> 
> Sorry for the wait, guys. Hope the length makes up for it? <3

Tim shook his head, clearing his thoughts as he made his way from the grand staircase to the library. He easily assumed that’s where Damian would be, considering that said brat spent a third of his free time there (the other two-thirds were dedicated toward antagonizing his brothers relentlessly until they sparred with him [read: using his demonic mind powers in heinous and highly irresponsible ways to force them to bow to his will]).

He found him sitting idly in Bruce’s armchair, a thin book held up to his face. Without turning his head, Damian addressed Tim the moment he stepped foot in the room.

“What do you want, Drake.” His tone made it clear that he wasn’t actually asking.

Tim rolled his eyes, choosing to hover by the entryway to make the easiest and fastest getaway possible the moment the conversation was over. “A lot of things,” he said cheekily, crossing his arms, “but none of them are why I’m here.”

“Tt. Out with it, creton.” Damian finally set down the book to level a heated glare in Tim’s direction. “You are wasting my time.”

With this, Tim fully agreed. He didn’t want to be doing this —talking to the demon brat—right now. Or ever, actually. He should be upstairs on his neatly-made bed watching a thrilling documentary about species indigenous to the Galapagos.

He took a deep breath to center his thoughts and to remind himself that the sooner he got this little encounter over with, the sooner he could return to the sanctuary of his bedroom.

“Did you talk with Dick earlier?”

“He approached me…” Damian squinted suspiciously, “Why?”

“Were you guys playing a game or something?”

Damian looked downright offended. “I am not a simple _ child! _ ” he growled, “We did no such thing!”

“Well, Dick seems to think that that’s exactly what you’re doing right now” Tim took great satisfaction in the surprise in Damian’s expression (mild as it was, he’d take what he could get and call it a win). “He’s in Jason’s room convinced that the two of you are playing hide-and-seek.”

“That’s preposterous. He and I both are above such immature behavior.”

“That doesn’t matter; you need to go talk to him or play along with him--do something to  _ fix  _ this.”

“Tt,” Damian’s glare hardened as he shook his head in annoyance. “Your prattling is useless. Simply wait for Richard to bore himself into realizing that i will not participate in a game intended for children,” he concluded, reaching for the book he’d set aside.

Now Tim was actually starting to get fed up with the little demon brat. To insinuate that Dick should --was  _ able  _ to— just ‘get over himself’ was, in perfect Damian-fashion,  _ incredibly  _ insensitive. And, as Tim can attest to with previous experience, not a realistic thing to ask of Dick right now. In his current state of mind, Dick was at his most vulnerable; when he was like this, anything was liable to set him off-- a crude joke, a playful knock on the shoulder, even (the worst of them all) misplacing Zitka. Suffice to say, they were on thin ice right now, and Damian’s attitude and refusal to at least help a little, wasn’t helping anyone, least of all Dick.

And it was starting to piss Tim off.

“It isn’t his  _ choice _ , you little—”

“ _ TIM? _ ” Jason’s panicked yell echoed down the corridor. “I lost him-- _ Fuck! _ ”

Tim whipped around in time to see his brother barreling straight toward him. Immediately, he was on high-alert. “What? What happened?” He met Jason’s gaze concernedly.

“I lost him—” Jason leaned heavily on the entryway’s doorframe to catch his breath, “Dick--he just—”

A high-pitched keening from somewhere else in the manor interrupted him mid-sentence.

“ _ Shit _ .” Tim breathed before the two of them soundlessly scrambled into the hallway. Used to this routine by now, they split up accordingly to cover more ground --Tim to check all the upstairs rooms and air vents, Jason to check the main floor and ‘basement’.

The sooner they found their brother, the better.

Tim shook his head again as he sprinted back up the grand staircase.

_ Shit _ .

*

He was all alone.

He was alone and it was dark and he was  _ scared  _ and he didn't know where Zitka was and...

He couldn't breathe, the darkness was smothering him and he couldn't move or see.

He was all alone and frightened and didn't know where he was anymore and  _ who was going to save him? _

He was  _ trapped  _ and  _ alone  _ and  _ scared. _

It was dark,  _ so dark _ , and he couldn't see his hands or the floor or the little drops of water slipping from his eyes or the little stains appearing on his pants because he’d burried his head in his knees...

Where were his brothers? His  _ frați? _

Where was his  _ tati? _

Zitka?  _ Where was Zitka? _ He needed someone to protect him from the darkness because he was scared and he  _ didn’t know what to do _ .

Zitka would protect him, make him feel better and dry all of his tears with her warm fur and soft hugs.

He wanted a hug right now, someone to dry his tears and hold him and tell him that  _ everything would be okay _ and that he was  _ safe _ .

Someone to protect him from the darkness and make it go away with his fears.

He was scared and he didn’t know what to do anymore-- he didn’t know what to do he was so  _ scared and alone and hurting _ and he couldn't stop  _ shaking  _ and the tears wouldn’t  _ stop  _ and the darkness and walls and  _ everything was closing in _ on him and he couldn’t stop it from  _ crushing him _ it was crushing him and he shook  _ harder  _ and cried  _ louder  _ and hugged his knees  _ closer  _ because there was  _ nobody else _ to hug him because he was  _ alone  _ and—

And it's  _ dark  _ and he’s  _ so scared so scared so scared  _ and he doesn't know  _ what to do _ and he  _ needs someone anyone to find him _ and  _ be with him _ and  _ hold him _ and  _ tell him that everything’s okay _ and—

He couldn’t _breath--_he couldn’t--_he was choking_ on darkness--_darkness_ and _choking _and _scared _and—

_ Somebody  _ ** _help _ ** _ please  _ ** _anybody _ ** _ help me  _ ** _help _ ** ** _me please _ ** ** _please please HELP_ ** \---

*

It was easier back when they were kids--well, younger, at least--to be around Dick like this and for it to be somewhat normal and to accept it as a part of their everyday lives.

But now? Now, Dick was a 24-year-old, college-level  _ adult _ , and so was Jason. It was noticeable, it made other people uncomfortable to be around a grown man who abruptly speaks and behaves like an 8-year-old boy. Depending on where they were--galas, restaurants, press meeting--it was almost embarrassing, if Jason were being honest. But then he’d see the eyrolls, the pursed lips, hear the gossipy whispers and gasps and fucking coos that strangers were giving his brother, the way they looked at him like he was a fucking idiot who should be praised for tying his shoes right, or shamed for acting so innappropriately for his age. As weird or uncomfortable as it sometimes made Jason feel, he would do anything for Dick, and not because he was somehow inferior or helpless, but because he respected him, could relate to him--life had dealt Dick Grayson some shitty cards but he played them nonetheless, and somehow, he’d won. If that wasn't worth respect, then Jason didn’t know what was. He would do anything for his brother. Even if that meant caring a little sometimes.

_ Dammit, Dickhead,  _ he thought,  _ how did you trick me into actually caring about shit? _

Jason shook his head as he made his way into the kitchen. Whatever noise Dick has been making before has significantly quieted down from when it first started almost twenty minutes ago. He’d been following what little noise had still been present throughout the manor halls, and thus far it had led him here, to the kitchen.

With silent footsteps, he treaded toward the pantry, where muffled whines and sniffles could be heard. Upon further investigation, the actual pantry was empty. So then where-?

_ The storage closet _ . The thin door located at the back of the pantry, hidden in the shadows. It was a usually unused room and Jason never really had any reason to enter it, so he’d almost forgotten it was even there.

But the sounds of his brother’s distress were unmistakable from where he was standing.

Jason rolled his shoulders as he approached the closed door, worry over Dick getting the best of him. He should be used to it--to this--by now, having the most experience with it and knowing Dick the longest. He’s had to do this so many times throughout the years, it shouldn’t be affecting him the way it did when he’d first encountered Dick like this. It shouldn't still be sending a pang of worry and brotherly-protectiveness through his heart.

As slowly and as gently as he could, Jason turned the knob. What he saw made his heart clench with guilt. Dick was huddled in the corner of the tiny closet, head buried in his knees and visibly shaking. Jason had no doubt that the shaking was both due to fear as well as the sobs wracking his frame.

Jason swallowed a lump in his throat and lowered himself hesitantly. “Dickie..?”

Dick must've been too stuck in his thoughts to hear him because he didn't react.

“Hey, it’s me, Dickie.”

Still no reaction to let Jason know he’d been heard. He needed to try a different approach.

As slowly and as gently as he could, Jason began to wrap his arms around the trembling shoulders of his older brother. Then, more quickly than Jason had anticipated, Dick launched himself into his arms, clinging to his shirt like a lifeline and burying his face in Jason’s chest. He continued to sob, but now it was out of relief.

“Shh, Dickie…” Jason said lowly and softly, clinging just as much to Dick as he was to him. “You’re safe, Dickie...you’re safe.”

*Bonus Scene*

The four of them were, miraculously, curled up on the living room couch together, Dick and Damian in the middle, Jason and Tim on the ends. They were all huddled under blankets in front of the television.  _ Finding Dory _ was playing over the noise of Jason’s snoring.

In the comfortable quiet, Damian’s thoughts were on the brother sitting beside him. His eyes were trained on the tv screen, watching with mild fascination as Dory’s parents embraced her and told her all of the things that normal parents supposedly told their children.

He couldn’t shake the weight on his chest. It was…  _ unfamiliar _ , to say the least; he’d never felt this before.

“Grayson,” he cleared his throat hesitantly, “...Dick?” His voice was almost inaudible, but Dick turned to look at his youngest brother. He blinked, letting Damian know that he was listening.

“I. I didn’t...” Damian bit his lip, unsure how to get his words out. “I am… sorry, Grayson.“

Before he could say anything else, Dick leaned into him and placed his cheek against the top of Damian’s head.

Damian was stunned to say the least, and slightly uncomfortable by the sudden (although minute) display of affection.

He was glad that neither Todd nor Drake were awake at the moment.

“I know.” Dick said simply, with nothing but honesty and understanding in his voice.

Damian, lighter than he’d felt since this afternoon, fell asleep before the film had ended.


	5. Order

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Talon enjoys organization.
> 
> Disclaimer: If you recognize it, it’s not mine. All rights go to DC Comics.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I can’t decide what psychological/mental things are responsible for his behavior in this chapter. All of his odd/abnormal actions are exacerbated by his past traumas, but maybe some are a result of something beyond that..? I can’t decide if I want him to have always been on the more neurodivergent side or not. Any opinions?

Talon likes things to be in order, for things to _ have _ order. If they do not, then everything around him is chaos. He can’t concentrate if there’s chaos.

So, often in his free time he makes order for himself.

He puts things in their places, where they belong, where they _ should _ be. He doesn’t mind doing it; actually, he finds it to be an almost… _ fun _ activity. It gives him something to do when no one’s around or when he’s bored.

He’s particularly fond of the manor’s library. Or, rather, how the books are kept organized on the shelves.

He arranges the books by color some days, then by thickness the next. Sometimes he’ll take them all off the shelves to feel them in his hands and then organize them by weight. His family doesn’t quite understand why he doesn’t just choose one way to organize them and then keep it that way. Come to think of it, he’s not quite sure, either.

*

Talon enjoys organizing things around the manor the most. It’s fun, pleasing.

Rearranging the books in the library, waiting to see if Master Alfred will come and help (with Talon’s permission, of course). Sometimes Alfred will simply busy himself with dusting to keep him company.

Sneaking into Damian’s room to sharpen and sort his pens and pencils. Finding cups and containers and drawers to line them all up in. Longest to shortest, lightest to darkest, fanciest to plainest.

Sitting quietly on Tim’s floor to move Keurig coffee pods around, grouping them by color and caffeine level until they look just right. Tim once asked him how he found them and to not let Alfred know. (Talon didn’t tell him that Alfred probably already knows.)

Hiding out underneath Jason’s bed to arrange the boxes upon boxes of random things. Biggest to smallest, most useful to least useful. Usually Jason knows he’s there but ignores him, lets him do whatever he needs to do, so long as he ‘doesn’t touch his cigarette stash.’ He doesn’t, even though he knows where it is.

Camping out in Bruce’s closet while he's at work (or “downstairs”) was his favorite, though. This was because Bruce’s wardrobe changed so frequently (so as to keep up with billionaire appearances), it always had new things for him to find places for; striped ties, bejeweled cufflinks, button down shirts of every color imaginable (a nice change of pace from his darker persona, in Talon’s opinion)... there was so much potential in this one room that Talon’s insides would light up with what he assumed was glee.

He spent hours hanging shirts, each time filled with a strange mix of focused excitement and soothing calm as he determined slight discrepancies in color. Sometimes he arranged the many (_ many _) dress shoes by the length of their laces, the color of their soles, or least- to most-intricately patterned.

Bruce always noticed (which Talon found himself utterly delighted by) and would leave the new reorganization for a couple of days to appreciate it before asking him to please put it back the way he found it; he liked that part almost as much, because it was like a game to see if he could correctly remember where everything started. He’d stand proudly as Alfred checked over his work and nodded his head (often accompanied by an honest smile and a thank you for making his job easier; Talon found himself enjoying the fact that he’d helped in some way).

*

Every day was a new experience for all of them, and he knew they were all learning alongside him.

He liked it when they came to him for help, when they sought him out in the big manor to ask him things like “Where is the pencil sharpener?” or “Have you seen my other blue sock?” or “Where’d you stick that copy of ‘Antigone’?”

With a smile and a hop he’d wordlessly lead them to a spot at their desk, a compartment in the back of their dresser, a hidden shelf in the library. They’d laugh or they’d sigh or they’d thank him; it would make his eyes light up and his heart flutter and his hands feel all tingly in the most wonderful way.

And they wouldn’t care if he grinned but said nothing, if he spun a little as they walked away, if he moved his hands around instead of saying ‘you’re welcome’.

Not all days were Good, but his Bad Days were getting better.

He was eccentric at times, but his family (his home, his roost) never made him feel out of place. They all had their eccentricities and quirks, but that didn’t make them any less of a (_ his _) family. They’d get on his nerves and he’d get on theirs, but so did everyone to everyone else.

They were a family; they were his, just as much as he was theirs.

And for once, he felt like he belonged. He had come here and at first it was messy, it was chaos. But new things came along, people and brothers and friends helped smooth some of the wrinkles, and with time he’d rearranged his chaos into order. He’d keep rearranging it, too, depending on his feelings and whatever day it was. And that was okay, he’d remind himself (as others had reminded him, reassured him). There was nothing wrong with change, because it was the constant, everyday changes—fixes, mends, patches—that brought him farther away from (who he was with) Them, and closer to a world made entirely his own with the bits and pieces that were still here.

He wasn’t broken, he didn’t need to be fixed. He was himself and he belonged. The reorganization of his life had arranged him in a way that lined him up with his new family.

It was order, it was good, it was _ home _.


	6. Sound 1

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sometimes sound is too much for Talon. (Pretty much a sensory overload & how he handles it.)
> 
> TRIGGER WARNING: descriptions & justification of self-harm, description of sensory overload.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: If you recognize it, it’s not mine. All rights go to DC Comics. <3

Sometimes noise is just too much. Some days it overwhelms him in a way that makes a cough reverberate like a jet engine in his eardrums. On those days, a knock on his bedroom door will send him cowering. On those days, sitting too close to someone who’s eating—chips or crackers, soup or pasta, squishy and crunchy and horrible—means the sound of chewing goes rocketing through his skull, sends shivers up his spine, and painfully bashes against his eardrums…

On those days, for whatever reason, his threshold for sound dips to an impossible standard. He knows that breathing or swallowing aren’t voluntary loud; he knows that they're normal and usually uncontrollable. He knows he’s being unreasonable (_ difficult _ is what his masters used to say, _ childish _ and _ slow _), wishes he were different, not so sensitive.. but he can’t control it, no matter how he tries, and it’s hard to predict when it’ll occur, whether a day will be one of Those Days.

On those days, the noise—every noise, anything within hearing distance—penetrates his thoughts, his fragile concentration, his delicate composure… forces him to run to his room, cower in the corner with his hands over his ears and all the lights off. He doesn’t know what’ll happen if he doesn’t do this, but he doesn’t want to find out.

When he retreats to his little safe-haven of darkness and silence, no one can reach him. No one can make noise, no one can hurt him. And that’s what it does, it _ hurts _ . Not in the same way that an explosion does, or a fire engine; it’s deeper, angrier. It festers and builds until it’s one noise too many and he _ snaps _ —and he can no longer tolerate it and his head wants to explode and he hates everything he sees and _ nothing is okay _ and it’s _ chaos _.

When that happens, when it all tumbles down on him and leaves him stranded and alone in his mind, when everything’s blaring at him, pressing down on him from all sides, the only way to make all of the feelings and anger and pain go away is to hurt. The only way to take away the pain in his mind and his ears is physical, tangible pain. That kind of pain he _ understands _.

That he can deal with.

(He controls it. All it is is bringing order to chaos. He can do that, likes doing that.)

He heals, anyway.

The effect is always immediate, the relief unimaginable. A simple slice to his calf, a claw to his forearm. Nothing too big, too noticeable. Just enough to let it all out. If he had to describe it, it felt like releasing a pressure that had been building up with no means of escape. Releasing some of the trapped pressure brought him so much _ relief _.

He didn’t want them to find out. He knew what they’d say because they cared about him and worried about him.. He knows they would tell him to stop hurting himself, that this ‘doesn’t accomplish anything’, but they don’t know what it’s like, they don’t know what it does or how much it _ helps _.

He can’t stop.

And he can’t figure out all the words needed to explain himself, to make them understand. He doesn’t want to tell them about the noises and sounds and pain, he knows it will only hurt them, can imagine the pain and sorrow and pity in their eyes (when they see how broken he truly is, how they’re all wasting their time on a lost cause…)

He knows they’ll blame themselves, and he doesn’t want that. So he doesn’t let them know, doesn’t let them find out.

Afterward his ears are still sensitive, still just as likely to be set off by a slurp or a gulp or a crunch. But he doesn’t feel so angry, and he feels a little more normal. But he also feels exhausted, and usually wants to be alone.

When he’s alone, there are no unexpected noises. When he’s alone, no one can hurt him.

Sometimes, he’ll be fine and back to normal (his normal) in just a few hours. Most of the time, though, it takes a couple of days for him to feel okay again.

He doesn’t like Those Days, because whenever they come around he can’t enjoy the simple things.

Sometimes he wonders if They made him this way, if They turned him into this.

Sometimes he wonders if maybe he’s always been broken.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading!! Damian’s perspective is up next! <3


	7. Sound 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Damian makes things right.
> 
> TRIGGER WARNING: self-harm!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: If you recognize it, it’s not mine. All rights go to DC Comics.

When Damian entered his eldest brother’s darkened room, he wasn’t expecting… _ whatever _ this was.

In the darkness he could make out Dick’s hunched form in the corner. From the looks of it, he’d wedged himself under the mahogany desk, which sat slightly askew as though it’d been pulled from its original position to create a barricade of sorts, an alcove in which to hide away.

What immediately caught Damian’s attention, however, was the unmistakable glint of metal, a blade, in his brother’s hands. That wasn’t what worried him; rather, it was the familiar sound of metal sliding across flesh, of wet blood pittering onto the floorboards. It was a sound that he was well acquainted with, one that he’d rather not hear again, especially not coming from his eldest brother.

Dick should have heard him by now, should have looked up and said ‘little bird’ with a tilt to his head. But he didn’t, which meant that he was trapped in his head, too focused on his thoughts to pay any mind to his surroundings. Damian knew from experience that that was not a good sign, that something was very wrong.

And then he realized the implications. Sharp blade. Metal against skin. _Blood_.

Dick was hurting himself, undoubtedly with the full intention of doing so. Even Damian knew that this was not okay, that this was an unacceptable coping mechanism for something deeper, something that needed to be addressed.

Regardless of the fact that he had a healing factor. That wasn’t the problem here.

Dick was _ hurting himself _.

It took Damian two seconds to cross the room and rip the tool from the other’s hands and toss it to the side.

Dick, startled and reasonably shaken, looked up at his youngest brother with wide, golden eyes. The wound on his arm had mended itself by now, but thick lines of wet blood remained.

“Grayson, what- _ why did you do that? _” Damian’s expression was unreadable, but his voice was firm and full of fury. Dick flinched back.

Damian heard more than saw it, the near-inaudible gasp followed by a short, pained whine; the rustling of fabric as he, presumably, moved to shield a part of himself. _ His ears, _ Damian realized as his eyes adjusted to the dark.

He forced himself to take a breath to calm himself, realizing that approaching this with anger was only going to frighten Dick.

After a moment of tense silence, he settled himself down on the floor, in front of his brother.

Damian felt a strange and sudden need to show his brother that he cared for his well-being. To do that, he needed to understand the problem; there had to be a reason for this kind of behavior, he reasoned. If there was anything that he could be doing to prevent this kind of thing from happening in the future, he wanted to do it. _ Needed _ to do it, to make up for everything else. More than once his own blind-sided, selfish ignorance had hurt the other in some way, damaged their relationship a little bit more in the process. He wanted to change that, and now was as good a time as any to start.

“Would you…” he started awkwardly, taking note of Dick’s less-pained-but-still-present flinch (and then adjusting his volume accordingly), “Would you like to talk about it?” He fidgeted, unused to being the one to offer help in these kinds of situations; he’d never really done this before, had only seen Todd and Drake do it a handful of times.

Dick shook his head ‘no’ adamantly, choosing instead to withdraw further under the desk.

Damian held back a sigh of frustration. The difficult part was going to be getting a straight answer. It was easier if he told himself that this was a case that needed solving. First gather the evidence, then follow the most probable leads. He hesitated, unsure of how to proceed. If he said the wrong thing, he risked damaging his already-rocky relationship with Dick, and (for a reason he still had yet to identify) he didn’t want that to happen.

He had an idea. _ Identify leads— narrow it down using process of elimination. _

“Are you… are you feeling depressed?” A quick head shake ‘No’.

“Are you sad about something?” No.

“Numb?” No.

“Are you.. angry?”

Dick shook his head, then seemed to abruptly change his mind and nodded instead. Then, thinking better of it, shook his head again. (This was good, Damian told himself. This was _ something _. He was getting somewhere.)

Before he could continue, something dawned on him, and he suddenly recalled an experience he’d had years ago (he’d made sure it didn’t happen ever again, because it had felt horrible, the whole experience had been an utter nightmare), before he’d come to live with his father. Knowing Dick’s upbringing held remarkable parallels to his own, he knew that it was entirely a possibility.

He followed his hunch and asked.

“Is it.. Is it because you felt overwhelmed?” He forced himself to maintain a low and steady tone (it still came out a bit stiff, but Dick didn’t seem to pay it any mind). He pressed forward when Dick tensed, “When everything feels.. too much all at once? This… it helps?”

He held his breath as Dick hesitated in silence for a painfully long moment. Then, almost imperceptibly, he nodded once, small but firm. Damian’s suspicions were confirmed, and suddenly he felt more certain of himself.

In one swift motion he pushed himself off of the floor, ignoring his brother’s questioning, near-panicked look. He left the room silently and with newfound determination.

*

When he came back all of two minutes later, Dick was huddled in the same spot, this time fidgeting with his hands—Damian had discreetly pocketed the thin blade on his way out, so that Dick wouldn’t be tempted in his absence. Unlike last time, he looked up as Damian entered the room.

The questioning look lingered as the younger strode forward with what looked to be a folded blanket in his arms.

Wordlessly, Damian set the bundle down and retrieved a pair of collapsible headphones from atop it. He gestured for Dick to move forward a bit and carefully—so that Dick could see what he was doing and could stop him if necessary—placed the high-quality piece over his ears. He looked more confused than ever at this point, but Damian continued without explanation. He’d made sure beforehand that the volume was turned down extra low and pre-set to his playlist of classical and orchestral music. He hit play on his phone before handing it over to Dick to experiment with.

Damian then unfolded the large, wool blanket (which may or may not have been stolen from Jason’s room), and draped it gently over Dick’s shoulders.

The older closed his eyes and, as the lilting music washed over him, allowed the tension to drain from his spine and muscles. He relaxed into the heavy warmth that now surrounded him.

The younger, satisfied with his work (and ignoring the warm feeling in his chest or the weight lifting from his shoulders), turned to leave.

Dick, eyes still shut, grabbed his wrist and guided him gently, pulling him under the blanket to sit beside him.

Shocked by this, Damian couldn’t deny the happy flutter of his heart and the smile that tugged at the corner of his lips. His brother wasn’t letting him go any time soon, so he made himself comfortable and nestled against him.

He would later insist that Dick keep the headphones and offer to help him create his own playlist to listen to whenever he liked.

He would also later deny the fact that he’d enjoyed the little cuddle session with his oldest (favorite) brother.

For now, though, he closed his eyes and allowed himself to smile.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading!! Anybody have thoughts on Dick being born neurodiverse?? (As of right now I’m 100% self-projecting onto him... ;-;)


	8. Gala 1

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dick (17, looks 16) and Jason (15) despise galas.
> 
> BACKGROUND INFO: Jason was the first to be adopted by Bruce (at age 10), as well as the first Robin. As of this chapter, Dick has been living with them for about a year; So Dick was adopted by Bruce when Jason was just turning 14. (I think.. let me know if my math is off ;-; )

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: If you recognize it, it’s not mine. All rights go to DC Comics.
> 
> **TRIGGER WARNING: lots of ableism/ableist language, (past) verbal abuse, mild swearing, anxiety/panic attack, mild self-harm (biting).**

Jason had quickly found himself feeling rather protective over his new brother, even though Dick was older than him by at least two years and was an actual, trained assassin who knew how to kill him eleven different ways with just a stapler.

(A completely true fact that Jason had found out by accident when he made the foolish mistake one afternoon of asking Dick if he knew any cool ninja moves. The conversation had turned on him instantly and Jason had never before felt so overwhelmingly horrified and impressed all at once. If Alfred noticed a distinct lack of staplers, staples, and staple-removers throughout the manor the next day, he said nothing.)

Whatever the case, and however capable Dick was at protecting himself, Jason still felt an untraceable need to protect him, for whatever reason he couldn’t identify. And not protect him in the way one does a small child from a hot iron; no, it was more in the way that Robin protected Batman—constantly defending the other’s back, covering openings in his defense, all while remaining hyper-aware of the other’s capabilities and position. It was mutual, an assurance that the other wasn’t alone, that neither of them was without at least one ally on—and by— their side.

That being said, physical strength and dexterity in battle weren’t by any means the same thing as the minefield that was social interaction. Even _ Jason _ was still learning and figuring out the hazardous intricacies of high-society politics. What to say and what not to say, appropriate topics of conversation, what topics were considered off-limits; how to properly greet and introduce oneself to a party guest, business associate, or member of the press… He could get by in a pinch, could smile politely and introduce himself to new faces and hold a simple, light conversation.

All of these things were ten times less familiar to Dick than they were to Jason; he’d barely mastered interacting with regular, everyday people, let alone with the bourgeoisie of upper Gotham.

Jason also knew, much as he hated to admit it, that Dick’s quirks, eccentricities, things that set him apart from everybody else—things left over from and caused by the Court, caused by severe trauma and maltreatment he’d experienced over the course of his childhood… The things that made him different, that made him Dick, wouldn’t be viewed in the same, familial light by everyone else, namely the wealthy pricks that attended every gala in Gotham.

*

Jason was understandably worried. It was his brother’s first time being in a large group of people. Knowing that Dick’s own anxiety about the event must be far greater, Jason had vowed to stay by his side the whole time.

He hadn’t predicted that doing so would entail having to literally hold the older’s hand.

He couldn’t (desperate though he was) hold back the embarrassment that overtook his every thought and movement. It was the kind of embarrassment that a teenager feels when, say, their mother forces them to hold her hand when crossing the street. The kind that makes you think ‘_ god, I hope nobody sees this’ _ and also somehow you can’t bring yourself to let go because ‘ _ is it really worth the argument’ _ and ‘ _ it’ll be over as soon as we reach the other side of the street’. _

They were currently perched at the edge of the crowd, hiding strategically behind a grand pillar. If Jason were being honest, he was relieved to have an excuse not to mingle. Striking up conversation with the people in this room was like sticking your bare hand into a tank of piranhas. Incredibly painful, and to be avoided at all costs.

It was unfortunate (tragic), then, when Jason’s stomach started to grumble. Seeing everyone strutting about casually eating gourmet appetizers and deserts, snacking on Alfred-quality finger sandwiches and pastry scones…

He turned helplessly to Dick, conveying regret and desperation with a single look.

Dick’s expression gave nothing away (eyes distant, mouth set in a neutral line), but his body language seemed very opposed to Jason’s unasked question. His shoulders remained slightly hunched forward, all of his muscles were tensed as though expecting to fight; his jaw was set and his stance was firm, fully intending to stay here, in this one spot, for as long as possible—the whole night, if he could.

“Dick, I really need something to eat.” No response. He tried again. “Seriously, I’m starting to feel some major hunger pains now.”

Dick’s grip on his hand merely tightened and he seemed to shrink in on himself. Jason bit the inside of his cheek and spared a longing glance at the fully-stocked buffet table. On cue, his stomach grumbled once again.

When he returned his gaze to his brother, he noticed him also eyeing the buffet table with something like longing (though it came off more ‘predatory’ than anything else) in his eyes.

_ He’s hungry too _, Jason realized. Then he sighed; they were pitiful, the two of them. He gave his brother’s hand a reassuring squeeze.

“C’mon,” he tried again as Dick’s gaze flashed back to him. “Let's go together.”

Then, when Dick’s face pinched concerningly, Jason hurriedly added, “Then we’ll come right back here.”

After a few moments of hesitant silence, Dick gave a curt nod. Jason grinned.

*

They acted fast, sticking together as Jason had promised, and made sure to evade any and all straggling partygoers (the solo ones always singled you out, always stopped for a ‘brief moment’ just to ‘chat’).

They approached the table discreetly and with caution. In his excitement (subtle though it was), Dick let go of Jason’s hand. Before either of them could even grab a plate, however, a nasally voice stopped them in their tracks.

“Ah! Jason, dear, there you are!”

He had to restrain himself from physically cringing at the old woman’s sudden (wrinkly) appearance. As he turned to face her, he plastered on a polite, toothy smile.

“Mrs. Wheatherby, lovely to see you.”

“Oh, the same to you, dear boy. Ever the charmer, you are,” she grinned at him with a mouthful of greenish-grey teeth.

“Um- Mrs. Wheatherby,” Jason addressed her before she could start asking about Bruce, “This is Richard, my brother,” he gestured vaguely with a hand, “Richard, Mrs. Wheatherby.”

“How do you do, young man?” She smiled at Dick through squinted eyes and offered only a nod in his direction; she was using her hands to carry a small plate of finger sandwiches and the other to hold a glass of champagne.

_ (“Is there anything that you _ can _ do? Or are you that pathetic, you worthless child?”) _

Dick looked nervously at Jason, who subsequently looked at Mrs. Wheatherby, who then turned to also look at Jason. After a few very long seconds of awkward eye-contact roulette, the older woman barked out a laugh that made both Jason and Dick jump a little. The latter squirmed as a familiar pit formed in his stomach.

“Not much of a talker, are you, Richard?” She smiled in much the same way a butcher might size up a lamb-chop.

_ (“You are but a child, what do you know of true pain? Of suffering? Please, allow me to enlighten you.”) _

Hesitantly, Dick shook his head once before continuing to surreptitiously glance around the room. He fidgeted nervously with his fingers and moved to stand directly behind Jason.

Mrs. Wheatherby looked at Jason expectantly. Something like false understanding dawned in her listless eyes. “You take good care of him, then?”

Her words—or rather, what they were _ implying _—felt like a bucket of ice water splashed down Jason’s spine. “Excuse me?”

“You’re such a good brother, Jason, helping out like that,” she took an excessive sip of her beverage, “You don’t see many people like you and Bruce, so willing to help people like… well, like _ him _.”

_ (“You really are a stupid one, aren’t you? Just my luck, of course. That is alright, young one; my methods never fail.”) _

Jason was too shocked—too utterly, _absolutely_ _infuriated_—to do anything but stare agape at the foul asshat before him. God, what he’d give to just snatch that glass from her wrinkled, leathery hands and then splash it right back in her stupid, liver-spotted face—

Suddenly, someone else decided to invite himself into the conversation. “Lovely event, Jason. Tell your father I said so,” said a portly man with a brown mustache and horrible combover, before nodding to the old woman. “Dhalia.”

“Maxwell,” she nodded back, not-so-subtly pushing her shoulders back and chest out in a way that Jason could only imagine she thought was seductive. He gagged. _ Now’s as good a time as any- _

“Well,” he said tersely, “thank you so much for coming, Mr. Thompson, Mrs. Wheatherby, but if you’ll excuse me—“

“Now, who’s this young lad?” Mr. Thompson continued as though he hadn’t heard him.

Jason bit back a frustrated sigh while Dick, realizing that the attention of both of these strangers was suddenly on him, shrunk behind him. Nervously, he began rotating his wrists at his sides and tapping the pads of each of his fingers to his thumbs.

“This is Richard, my-“

“New servant? I say, it’s about time you give dear Alfred a break.”

_ (“Home? My dear boy, your home is here—with the Court. With me.”) _

“-My _ brother _ . My fully-capable, _ also-adopted-by- Bruce-Wayne _, older brother.” Jason’s fake smile turned sharp. As he corrected them, he made sure to look them each straight in the eye. When they shifted uncomfortably under his cold stare, he internally smirked with satisfaction.

He was snapped out of his stare-off with the two older guests when Dick suddenly latched onto his sleeve and gave it a small tug. Jason spared him a glance and noticed his eyes darting around the room as though searching for an invisible enemy; he was hunched in on himself self-consciously, and kept shuffling his feet, a testament to how antsy he was to leave this situation as soon as possible. (That, along with the anxious hand-fidgeting.)

Jason settled his jaw and gave him what he hoped was a comforting smile. (Dick caught it, but didn’t return it—though he _ was _ grateful for the gesture.)

Mr. Thompson cleared his throat pointedly, in a way that made it seem as though he’d also just noticed Dick’s atypical behavior. “Richard, you said?” He extended a plump hand in Dick’s direction with thinly-veiled distaste, “It’s a pleasure.”

_ (“You are broken. You are useless. You must accept these two facts for what they are.”) _

Dick flinched back and proceeded to stare accusingly at Mr. Thompson’s hand, unsure of what to do and feeling very, very uncomfortable. He chewed his lower lip nervously, trading fidgeting with his fingers for biting them. He knew he must look ridiculous and childish but right now his worry outweighed his embarrassment. (He was grateful that Jason couldn’t see him like this, didn’t want to see the same look in his eyes that They had, couldn’t handle that kind of rejection from someone he’d grown so close to, someone he’d grown to trust...he couldn’t handle rejection from his little brother). He needed something to ground himself.

_ (“When you think of darkness, think of me, dear boy, for I will always be there, watching, waiting for you.”) _

He could feel the eyes of Mr. Thompson and Mrs. Wheatherby bore into him expectantly, as if they were each studying him, judging him, making unfair assessments of him based on this confusing encounter. He worked to control his breathing and bit down hard on his pinky.

_ (“Without me, you are nothing. Without the Court, you are nothing. Never forget that, stupid child.”) _

He didn’t know what to do, and he didn’t want to make things worse for Jason; what if he did the wrong thing and these strangers decided to take it out on him instead of Dick? Nobody prepared him for this kind of environment, this situation, these people.

_ (“I am very patient, I am very fair. All punishments are deserved, all pain is necessary.”) _

All of their cold stares, false smiles, belittling words, sense of superiority… it was painfully reminiscent of Them—his former Masters, his teachers, the Owls… He pushed his bubbling thoughts to the back of his mind, locked them in a box and shoved them away to deal with later (emotion is unacceptable; emotion is useless; emotion earns you pain).

He shuddered and shut his eyes tightly, willing himself to disappear behind the figure of his little brother.

_ (“You have no one to blame but yourself, you stupid, stupid child.”)_

_  
*  
  
_

A small, guttural whine made its way out of the back of Dick’s throat.

Jason needed to get him out of here, ASAP. It was time to ditch these rich bastards. Less-than-politely brushing Mr. Thompson’s hand to the side, he made to sidestep them.

“D-Richard and I should really be going, it was  _ lovely _ talking to you both-“ he was pedaling backwards as he spoke (this time he didn’t mask the sarcasm in his voice), gently pushing Dick backward with him.

As though just now noticing Dick’s obvious distress, Mrs. Wheatherby threw a bejeweled hand over her (flat) bosom, offendedly and sneered. “I say- what’s the  _ matter _ with him?”

_ (“How many times must you force me to repeat myself? It is your fault that I must correct you, your fault that I act this way. You test my patience, boy.”) _

Mr. Thompson wiped his hand on his expensive slacks as though he’d just touched something unpleasant—even though he never once actually made contact with Dick’s hand. He peered down his nose at their squirming figures—at  _ Dick _ , hunched over on himself, face pinched, and biting down hard on the skin of his hand—with obvious disgust. “Hn. Seems as though  _ someone _ ,” he muttered thinly, “came to this gala on the  _ short-bus _ , as it were.” [1]

_ (“You are broken. No one wants a broken toy. Do not worry, child; We want you, even though nobody else does. We are more generous than most.”) _

Jason was seething, and wanted nothing more than to knock his— _ both of their _ — stupid fucking teeth in, but he knew from experience that anything he’d do or say in his or his brother’s defense would be ignored and/or blown way out of proportion. Also from previous experience, he knew that Dick needed to be somewhere quiet right now, somewhere away from prying eyes and belittling smiles.

So, instead of decking them and tossing them out on their asses, he smiled again (though it probably looked rather feral with the snarl he was suppressing at the moment).

They stumbled backwards into the empty hallway. Jason pulled Dick further down the hall, wanting to put more distance between them and those bastards. He stopped when they reached the balcony.  _ Good, fresh air. _

Immediately after letting go of Dick’s hand, Jason began pacing back and forth, mind running furiously. He muttered to himself under his breath as he planned out the untraceable murders of one Maxwell Thompson and Dhalia Wheatherby.

Meanwhile, Dick had all but collapsed in the corner with his back against the railing. His knees were drawn to his chest and his eyes stared at nothing. His whole body was trembling, but it wasn’t from the cool, night air. His mind was racing, and he couldn’t seem to pull himself together; he was starting to lose his grip on reality, the lines between memories and everything else blurring together.

_ (“You do only as I say, boy. You do not move, do not speak, do not  _ breathe _ unless I have given you a direct order to do so.”) _

_ (“You are nothing but a fool! A child, do you understand me? Worthless!”) _

It was like his first day in the Labyrinth, confused and alone and scared; not knowing what he was supposed to do and having to choose between playing it safe and doing nothing or guessing what They wanted him to do and risk getting it wrong. Either way ended in punishment, and the only point of the exercise was to teach him that his decisions were ultimately worthless and that, no matter what he did, They would always be behind his every choice, every action, every thought… that he was worthless without Their guidance.

_ (“You are nothing. You are worthless.”) _

_ (“Poor, foolish child. In the end, it was your choice. Your fault. Your mistake.”) _

_ (“Get up and quit making a fool of yourself. You have failed me for the very last time, dear boy.”) _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [1] Short buses are typically used for special-education students (as opposed to normal, “long” buses, which are used by the majority of a school’s population). The term is generally used to degrade someone and insult their intelligence/capabilities.
> 
> Please let me know if this chapter was at all confusing, I know it’s a lil different from the others <3


End file.
